Stymied

We’ve reached a point where progress has been severely obstructed by prioritization. We found a guy. A job fell through and we lucked out when Dave (we have no idea what his last name is) had a hole in his schedule. Thank god.

Dave has forgotten more about hardwood flooring than most experts will ever know. From the second I met this guy I knew he’d have all the answers. I couldn’t even keep up with the right questions. I hired him on the spot. One day later, our house is back to being uninhabitable. Guess I forgot to ask about a place to stay.

It was about 3 pm when Dave, who had been killing himself to beautify our plus century old wood, asked Diana where we were staying tonight. This was a conversation stopper. “You mean we can’t stay here?”

Apparently in the hardwood flooring industry there’s this little thing called “outgassing.” I thought it was isolated to Mexican food and certain poor dietary choices, but it turns out that refinished 131-year-old floors emit some seriously toxic air. Huh.

Looks like we’re homeless. Dave was nice enough to give us a 24 hour reprieve, but come tomorrow…we’ll need to find a safe house from whatever the hell gets applied to freshly sanded really old wood. Hello Newport…

Why not spend an even more obscene amount of cash than originally intended to not only protect your ancient floors, but stay the night in one of the most expensive towns in America? It worked for JFK. How bad could it be? We pulled the trigger on a room near Bowen’s Wharf.

At this point we’re over a barrel. I’ve completed as much as I can do on the deck. Diana can’t paint because of hardwood sand fouling the walls. And Kéa is a prisoner of summer work jail. Time to call it and go to the beach.

Can’t get too comfortable though. Templates for the granite counter tops happen tomorrow, and sadly, the 30′ yard full size dumpster is being ripped from my heart. I knew this day would come, but I had no idea how painful it would be. I’ve fallen hard for the magic container. The place where things remarkably disappear, never to return.

As sad as I am, it will be nice to park the silver 1973 Mercedes Cutlass Neon Falcon (Sally – you know I love you. And I’ll love you so much more if your next car is a Porsche 911 Carerra 4S) in our own driveway. As for tomorrow, we’ll see what fun new misadventures reign down upon us.